


houses swallowed by the earth, windows thick with frost

by monsterq



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst by Proxy, Consent Issues, Episode: s06e09 Clap Your Hands If You Believe, Frottage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sibling Incest, Soulless Sam Winchester, Voyeurism, angsty porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 01:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30098418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterq/pseuds/monsterq
Summary: The sounds go on longer than normal this time. Usually, Sam could call time on Dean’s orgasm with a stopwatch; now, his brother’s muffled pants and soft grunts grow an edge of frustration. After a while, Sam’s distracted from the noises he could wrench from Dean’s throat long enough to wonder what’s going on.Another advantage to soullessness: he doesn’t have any hang-ups keeping him from pulling out his earbuds, shifting in his chair to peer at the dark shape under the covers, and asking, “Need some help with that?”
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 61
Collections: Every Time We Touch: A First-Time Wincest Fest





	houses swallowed by the earth, windows thick with frost

**Author's Note:**

> Title from ["Autoclave"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sskFjbHu_W0) by the Mountain Goats.

It’s the dead of night in a kitschy hotel. Ugly wallpaper, scratchy upholstery, and a microwave still full of invisible fairy guts—or so Sam assumes. He wonders if Dean plans to clean it up before they skip town. If he doesn’t, will whoever uses the microwave next get some kind of fairy hepatitis? Might be worth coming back in a few months to find out.

On one of the beds, Dean is passed out like a bag of meat. The other is smooth and untouched; Sam’s at the table with his laptop, watching a video on fairy lore. He’s wearing earphones, because there’s nothing that makes him reconsider sticking with his brother like being chewed out about trivial bullshit. The calculation always comes to the same result, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying when his brother talks to him like he thinks Sam has a head injury. Sam’s explained three times that he still knows everything he did when he had a soul, but it never seems to take.

Three minutes into the video, it’s pretty clear the lecturer has all the expertise of a Disney movie. So his attention is already drifting when sheets start to rustle behind him. Dean’s breath changes, his pulls of air growing faster and more ragged.

The old Sam, the other Sam, might have tried to fool himself. _Maybe Dean’s having a nightmare,_ he’d reason. _Maybe he’s just turning over in his sleep._ He wouldn’t believe himself, of course, but he’d invent excuses and recite them like a rosary, listening, eyes wide open, in the dark.

Now, Sam doesn’t need that kind of self-deception. Why bother? The truth is that he’d know that sound anywhere. The truth is that years of lying feet away in tacky motel rooms have made it as familiar as a favorite song. The truth is that he enjoys it like one too, and deep down, he always has.

The volume of the video is already only a murmur in his ears, but he mutes it. In the void behind him, too dark for a reflection to show on Sam’s glowing laptop screen, Dean sucks in a sharp breath, then lets it out slowly. Sam hears a wet sound—Dean’s tongue across his palm? If he took out his earbuds, he could pick up more details. But Dean might notice, and then, well, there’d be nothing left to listen to.

Old Sam would have turned up the video’s volume, tried to drown it out. Well, no. Old Sam would have told himself he was going to do that any second, really, any second now, all while Dean’s breath got faster behind him and Sam’s jeans tightened. He’d have tossed and turned all night with guilt over listening and then been pissy in the morning, and Dean would’ve given him shit for it without having any idea about the cause, and eventually Sam would’ve told himself that it wasn’t a big deal and it didn’t mean anything anyway, and he’d have pushed it out of his mind until he showered, when he’d have jerked off hard and fast with his forehead pressed against crusty motel tiles, eyes squeezed shut, telling himself he wasn’t replaying Dean’s hitching breath and imagining himself in that dark, warm space beneath the blanket.

This Sam, though, just leans back in his chair and spreads his legs until he’s comfortable and listens. He lets heat twist and settle low in his gut and enjoys the slow filling of his cock, and he doesn’t feel bad about any of it. There are a lot of advantages to this whole soulless business, even if there’s no point saying that to Dean.

The sounds go on longer than normal this time. Usually, Sam could call time on Dean’s orgasm with a stopwatch; now, his brother’s muffled pants and soft grunts grow an edge of frustration. After a while, Sam’s distracted from the noises he could wrench from Dean’s throat long enough to wonder what’s going on.

Another advantage to soullessness: he doesn’t have any hang-ups keeping him from pulling out his earbuds, shifting in his chair to peer at the dark shape under the covers, and asking, “Need some help with that?”

Dean freezes like prey. Seconds of silence stretch out, and Sam wonders if Dean thinks Sam will forget he’s there if he just keeps still enough. Switching on the lamp, Sam smirks at his flushed, rumpled brother. “I said, you need any help?”

Dean sputters, his voice rough with sleep. “I—you—what the fuck, Sam?”

Sam just raises his eyebrows at him. Is he really going to play clueless?

Moments stretch until Dean shakes his head. “Dude, I know you’re a couple fries short of a Happy Meal right now, but you can’t just say crap like that. Not to your brother.”

“Sure I can,” Sam counters. “I just did.” He stands up from his chair, aware of how his height makes him loom. Dean scrambles to sit up, the sheet puddling on his lap, as Sam approaches.

“Not funny, man! Some things are just private!”

“Private, huh?” Sam says. “You know what I think? I think that if part of you didn’t want me to hear, maybe to get involved”—he grins as Dean’s tongue darts out to wet his lips—“you wouldn’t have started jerking off when you knew I was awake just a few feet away.”

“You were watching the—I didn’t—” Dean’s voice cracks.

Sam takes a moment to consider his options. He definitely wants to get laid. His brother looks even more fuckable than usual like this, half-dressed and rumpled. And Dean wants it too—Sam’s sure of that. The flush on his cheeks looks like arousal as much as embarrassment, and Dean’s sneaky once-overs have never been as subtle as he thinks.

But he looks panicky. It’s like Sam’s suggested eating him alive instead of showing him a good time: another way souls cloud your thinking. Honestly, the prospect of getting his own back is less appealing every day.

He doesn’t really need Dean’s say-so to fuck him—Sam is bigger, stronger, and not held back by sentiment—but playing it that way would make it hard to keep working together. So Dean needs gentling.

Softening his voice, Sam says, “Dean, it’s been a hard couple days. There’s no shame in wanting to unwind a little.”

“For fuck’s sake, Sam, I’m not—”

“Or in having some trouble with that, you know, after what you’ve been through.”

He waits to see if he hit the right notes.

“I…” Dean is blushing again. “Damn it, it’s bad enough when the real Sam starts spouting that pansy-ass shit. When you do it, it’s just creepy, okay? I ain’t ‘been through’ shit. It’s fine. I’m just…”

Sam considers bringing up last night’s averted probing, then decides that won’t help. “It’s not every day you have to microwave a hot girl to death,” he offers. “Look, man, I’m just saying if your hand’s not doing the trick right now, I’ve got two of them. And a mouth.”

That last makes Dean’s eyes dilate as his gaze drops to Sam’s lips. Jackpot. Pressing his advantage, Sam sits on Dean’s bed, leans close. Glances down at the sheet over his lap. Yeah, Dean’s still hard. “Listen, you say no, and I’ll go away. Just tell me one thing—who would it hurt?”

Dean opens his mouth, then shuts it again.

“Don’t you think we deserve a little fun, after everything we do to help people?” Sam pushes.

“Like you care about any of that,” Dean scoffs, but the snark is a reflex. Dean’s eyes tell the real story: barriers down, he’s suddenly starving, wanting so much he hurts with it. Sam’s in.

When Sam leans over to kiss him, he half expects Dean to spook. It’ll be a pain to do more coaxing, but he knows his brother’s ass will be worth it. But Dean meets him in the middle in a clash of teeth, hand twisting in Sam’s hair, and Sam can barely keep himself from grinning with triumph.

Like this, Sam can feel the fine tremors running through Dean’s body, the fast and shallow motion of his chest. He straddles Dean’s legs and presses in close, nipping at his plush lower lip and then biting the joint of his jaw before returning to his mouth, all the while smoothing his hands across Dean’s body as if soothing a nervous horse. Dean tastes like toothpaste and a trace of beer, and he’s kissing Sam back: cautious one moment, aggressive the next, tongue swooping and swirling like he thinks a panel of judges might be tucked behind Sam’s molars.

When Sam breaks away, Dean lets out a small, involuntary grunt. Their legs are slotted together around polyester and denim, Dean’s hard-on nudging at Sam’s fly. Sam’s arousal is buzzing hot now in his cock and in his gut, and he wishes he had three bodies so he could do everything to Dean at once. Fuck him, suck him, sink his teeth into him and tear him apart. It’s weird how hard it’s hitting him, this wanting. He shakes the rush from his head so he can think.

Dean’s staring at him, and if he could see himself he’d hate the vulnerability in his face. Why didn’t Sam do this sooner? He pulls his shirts off, then stands to shove down his jeans and boxers. “Stay,” he says sharply when Dean shifts restlessly, and Dean freezes. Smirking, Sam crawls back onto the bed and shoves the sheets away until he’s face to face with Dean’s rigid cock.

From inches away, Sam takes a moment to admire it the way he’s never had a chance to before. He’s had glimpses, of course, no way to avoid that with the kind of lives they lead. But now, like this, curved up hard and flushed with the delicate skin stretched thin around it, silky smooth, he’s pleased to see that it’s as pretty as he always thought it would be. As he never admitted to himself he always thought it would be. Christ, the contortions he used to twist himself into when he had a soul. It’d be sad if it weren’t so funny.

Out of nowhere, he remembers the first time he ever sucked a cock—back in college, at a party in a house rented by a group of upperclassmen. When a guy he’d been flirting with beckoned, Sam went with him to the upstairs bathroom—all the bedrooms were occupied—and let the guy push him down by the shoulders until Sam was kneeling in front of him, staring at the bulge in his jeans. Sam was so nervous, he remembers, actually shaking with it—wanting to impress? Afraid of how it would feel? He’s not sure now, but he remembers the way the guy’s fingers tangled in his hair and the little noises he made. He remembers afterward, how part of him wanted to tell Dean about it, and another part of him wanted Dean to never, ever find out.

Now, leaning in, Sam wraps his lips around the head and flicks his tongue into the slit, tasting Dean’s precome. He relishes the musky body scent and the silky skin under his lips. He takes his time, exploring the contours and tastes of his brother’s flesh like he would with candy. Dean is panting, his head thrown back as if he can’t bear to look at Sam. As Sam hollows his cheeks and sucks, a low, drawn-out moan forces its way from Dean’s throat; he looks almost like he’s in pain. Glancing down, he meets Sam’s gaze. His eyes widen and his hips buck, sliding his cock deeper into Sam’s mouth.

Sam pushes himself, letting the head tease the back of his throat, then press into it as he quashes his gag reflex. He enjoys it like he does working out: the challenge, the physicality, the burn of testing his limits. When Dean’s hips give another involuntary jerk, Sam shifts up on his knees to pin them down, his forearm an iron bar across the sharp peaks of Dean’s pelvis. Dean twitches, his cock jerking, and Sam’s gives a matching twinge.

When he gets restless, he pulls off and considers his brother, laid out pale and mussed on the wrinkled sheets. In the angled yellow light, shadows blend into bruises and bruises into shadows, impossible to tell apart.

“Hey,” Dean protests. “What’re you—”

“Shh,” says Sam.

Sliding up the bed, he seals his mouth over Dean’s nipples, laving his tongue across the sharp peaks, sucking one, then biting the other. It pulls a high noise from Dean, and his body bucks. Sam shifts further upward until he can sink his teeth into the pulse point of Dean’s neck. Tender skin, prickle of stubble, taste of sweat, and Sam bites down hard.

Dean moans, his hips shoving up into Sam’s, and they rut against each other, skin getting wet with Sam’s saliva and both their precome. It’s a heady rush, as good as a fight. Aren’t fucking and fighting the same thing when you get right down to it? Bodies and heat, adrenaline and sensation, life and death.

Intellectually, Sam knows that when he had a soul, he felt things all the time, all kinds of things. He could even name those feelings now—come up with the right labels for the cartoon faces like on the sheets of laminated papers the school counselors would show Sam as a kid. But he can’t remember, really, what those feelings _felt_ like.

It doesn’t matter. They can’t have been as good as this.

Dean’s trying to bite back his reactions, but his control is slipping. He grasps at Sam’s shoulders like he thinks Sam might pull away, his fingers digging into the muscle. Every now and then words slip past his clenched teeth—nothing that means anything, just _Sam_ and _Sammy_ and _oh God_ and _fuck_ and _please_. Others he traps in his throat, and Sam wants to pry them loose. He nips under Dean’s jaw again, tasting the place where his pulse batters frantically against the skin, and Dean’s voice hitches.

He can’t seem to decide whether to keep his eyes open or not. One minute they’re squeezed shut as Sam thrusts against him, cock riding sweet and slick along the crease of Dean’s hip; the next they’re wide open, devouring Sam. Flicking from his mouth, slack and hungry, to his hair, falling forward as they grind together, to his tattoo, now damp with sweat, to his eyes.

Experimentally, Sam widens his eyes and lets his mouth drop open slightly. He moans, his voice a little higher. “Dean, Dean.”

Dean shudders, a wretched noise tearing from his throat.

Bingo, Sam thinks. Curling his shoulders inward and ducking his head so he looks up through his eyelashes, brow furrowed and earnest, he says, “I need you, Dee. Come on.”

Dean stares at him, barely breathing. “Are you acting like—are you doing that on purpose?”

“Yeah. Do you like it?”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Dean hisses, baring his teeth. He shoves up, hooks Sam’s leg, and flips them over fast and hard. On top now, he kisses Sam viciously, like it’s a fight he means to win. Breathing in ragged bursts, Dean bites at his lip and then his jaw, yanks at his hair, and Sam holds on for the ride, snaking a hand down to squeeze Dean’s ass and savoring the sparks of pain.

Abruptly Dean jerks away and crawls down the bed until his head is level with Sam’s crotch. He wraps a fist around the base of Sam’s cock and wastes no time sucking it into his mouth, a hot wet pull that makes Sam’s hips buck. Dean rides the thrust and forces himself down harder, lashes dark and damp against his cheeks as he gags. When he blinks, a tear escapes and rolls down his face to catch on the stretch of his pretty mouth where it wraps around Sam’s cock. Sam reaches up to press a thumb against his full bottom lip. Feels it give.

Dean glances up and pulls off long enough to growl, “Stop fucking looking at me.” Then he dives back in. But Sam keeps watching him, propped up on one elbow to see his face. Dean’s breathing hard through his nose, sliding his mouth along Sam’s cock. He can’t take all of it, but he’s making a good effort. More tears slip past his eyelashes as he forces himself deeper, like there’s a prize for cocksucking and he’s going to win it or die trying.

Eventually, the world becomes nothing but sensation, because Dean might not have much experience but he makes up for it with determination. Sam only half notices that Dean’s shoved his free hand between his own legs to jerk off, fast and rough, as he sucks him. It’s good, and then it’s better, and then Sam comes, his whole body bowing up into it, groaning and gripping his brother’s shoulders. When he’s sagged back, panting, onto the bed, Dean hides his face against Sam’s sticky chest until he spills into his hand. He’s silent except for a harsh breath that hisses between his teeth.

Dean rolls over to face away from Sam and doesn’t say anything. After a moment’s consideration, Sam hands him a shucked T-shirt for the mess of jizz, gives his thigh a firm, hopefully encouraging pat, and goes to take a shower.

The water pressure is too low to be really satisfying, a lukewarm drizzle over his shoulders, but Sam doesn’t mind. He washes efficiently and by rote, evaluating the encounter. A success, he decides. Ninety-five percent chance he can turn this into a regular fuck.

When he shuts off the water and towels himself dry, he realizes he can hear Dean through the thin motel wall. He’s making sounds in his throat, harsh and rough, uneven. But by the time Sam walks back into the room, no sound is coming from the bed. Dean’s motionless, the sheet pulled up all the way over his head, just soft-looking hair sticking out like the pelt of a small, flayed animal.

Sam goes back to his laptop. Six hours to kill till morning.


End file.
